“Indeed,” he replied. So what was she doing here, he wondered? Had she finally grown weary of her independence and decided she needed a high-born husband, instead? “Rosemoor tells me he is sponsoring your debut into society next month,” Henry remarked. “You’re going to London with them, then?”
She sighed as she nodded. “It’s true. It was a most generous offer on behalf of Lord and Lady Rosemoor, one I am afraid my papa felt he couldn’t refuse.”
He found it hard to imagine her in Town, going to balls and routs, gadding about Mayfair drawing rooms. This was her element, here in the country. “You are not enthusiastic about the prospect?”
“I confess I am not.” She leaned forward, resting her chin in the palm of one hand, her features hard. “I feel betrayed, forced to play the role of empty-headed girl, just so my father can marry me off.”
“Marry you off? You would give all this up, then?” He gestured toward the horses.
“Of course not,” she snapped, looking at him sharply.
Henry was confused. “But you cannot expect a husband to allow you to—”
“It’s not as if I’ve hung out a shingle, my lord. I don’t accept payment for my services.” Her color rose, and he realized he had insulted her. He hadn’t meant to, but unless she was truly naïve she must know that if she married into the ton, her days of treating animals would be over. No, she was much better suited to the gentry. And even then she might have a hard time finding a husband who’d allow it.
“Be that as it may,” Henry said softly, “I am afraid you will nevertheless encounter resistance from a husband.”
“I realize that. But you see, I have no intention of taking a husband.”
“Then why go to London?” he asked.
“I’m going because my father wishes it, because I have no say in the matter.” A sly smile crept across her countenance as she brushed a piece of straw from her frock. “I have another purpose in mind, as well.”
“Is that so?” He was intrigued. “Now you have my attention. Are you going to tell me, or must I guess?”
“I spoke of Mr. Wilton, who studies at the Veterinary College?”
He nodded.
“Well, you see, I’m hopeful he can facilitate some training for me while I’m in London, something more substantial than reading old textbooks.” Her eyes were positively luminous.
Henry wasn’t certain how to respond.
Suddenly the foal ceased it strident suckling and tottered about awkwardly on unsteady legs. Both Henry and Miss Abbington sprang to their feet and hurried to peer into the stall.
“She is beautiful. What shall you call her?” she asked.
“Hmmm, I haven’t yet decided. Perhaps you should have that privilege.”
“I would be honored.” Miss Abbington closed her eyes and sighed deeply, the swell of her breasts rising and then falling perceptibly above the neckline of her gown. “It was incredible, was it not, my lord?”
It had been an incredible experience. He was practically drunk upon it. It suddenly struck him as ludicrous that she still addressed him so formally after the intimate experience they had just shared—and was there a more intimate experience than bringing forth life together? Damn the social conventions.
“Please, no more of this ‘my lord’ nonsense.” He reached fervently for her bare hand. “Call me Henry.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Henry,” she repeated, as if testing it upon her lips.
He felt a heat rise in his loins. The girl’s tongue darted out to moisten her lips and Henry knew with certainty that he was going to kiss her. That he had to kiss her. He leaned toward her and took her chin in his hand, tipping her head up to meet his gaze. He’d never seen eyes such a clear green, like twin moss-lined pools reflecting the sunlight. He saw her swallow convulsively as he traced her lower lip—so soft, so full—with his fingertip.
Dear Lord, is he going to kiss me? Lucy wondered, knowing she shouldn’t allow it, that she should pull away from his grasp before it was too late. But she found herself paralyzed, unable to move, unwilling to break the spell. Instead, she held her breath as he leaned toward her and pressed his lips against hers, gently at first, but growing more insistent. Her senses reeled and the ground seemed to sway beneath her feet as she felt his warm breath caress her cheek, his teeth lightly nipping at her lower lip. Her own breathing grew ragged in reply, and with a reckless abandon, she parted her lips, opening her mouth against his. She gasped as he retreated, his mouth leaving hers only for an instant before he pulled her roughly against him, plunging his tongue into her eager mouth.
She melted against his well-muscled body, savoring the masculine taste of him as his tongue explored hers, teasing it. She shuddered as his hands moved down her sides, brushing softly against the curve of her breasts before moving to her lower back, his powerful fingers massaging the sensitive skin at the base of her spine. An unfamiliar warmth pooled in her belly, radiating down to her thighs. Fearing her knees would buckle, she clung to his neck, drawing him closer, her heart beating in rhythm to his. Almost involuntarily, her fingers tangled in his hair, eliciting a groan from him as his hands moved up to clutch her shoulders.
Without warning, the sound of shuffling feet and voices invaded her awareness, dragging her attention from the sinful sensations that had all but overcome her sensibilities.
“Mornin’, m’lady,” Lucy heard just outside the stables.
“Have you seen my son?” a crisp, feminine voice replied.
Lucy’s eyes flew open, and she saw her own surprise mirrored in Lord Mandeville’s eyes as he drew his mouth from hers. She gazed up at him in sheer, wide-eyed panic as she attempted to smooth down her gown with shaking hands. Her lower lip began to tremble as the full realization of what she’d done hit her, knocking the breath from her lungs.
She heard Lord Mandeville mutter an oath as he raked a hand through his hair.
“Ah, there you are, Henry.” A tall, handsome woman strode in, elegantly attired in dove-gray silk. “I’m lunching with Lady Hathorne and thought perhaps you’d wish to accompany—” The woman’s cold blue eyes settled upon Lucy with evident disdain. “I see you have a guest.”
“Miss Abbington, my mother, the Marchioness of Mandeville. Mother, may I present Miss Lucy Abbington?” His voice was cool, controlled, tinged with a hint of boredom. “She is a guest of the Rosemoors,” he added. “She’ll be joining them in London for the Season.”
“Your ladyship.” Lucy executed a small curtsey, relieved that her limbs obeyed her command.
“Good morning.” Lady Mandeville’s narrowed eyes surveyed her from head to toe. Lucy flinched at the close inspection—she knew she must look a mess. With a frown, the woman exaggeratedly looked over her shoulder. “I do not see your chaperone, Miss Abbington.”
“This isn’t a social call,” Lord Mandeville said sharply, and Lucy suppressed the urge to smile. Hadn’t she said just the same thing to Mary only hours before? “I summoned Miss Abbington here at an early hour to aid in Medusa’s foaling. She is up to the rigs in such matters.”
Lucy straightened her spine at the compliment.
“I see.” Lady Mandeville cleared her throat. “How, ahem, charming. I suppose that explains the condition of your dress, then.”
“I really should be getting back to Glenfield,” Lucy interjected, anxious to remove herself from this woman’s obvious disapproval. “They’ll be worrying over me, I’m sure.”
“Of course,” Lord Mandeville said. “I shall have one of the carriages ready at once. Mother, if you will excuse us, I will see Miss Abbington off.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Lady Mandeville said. “Miss Abbington, please give my regards to your hosts. I hold Lord and Lady Rosemoor in high esteem. I hope I shall see them at the Warburton party.”
“Yes, your ladyship.” Lucy attempted a weak smile. “I hope—”
“Good day, miss.” Lady Mandeville dismissed her with a nod. “Henry, we shall ta
lk later,” she said with a scowl, and then swept out haughtily.
Lord Mandeville stood there silently for a moment before speaking. “I must apologize for my mother’s rudeness. She is angry with me, but she should not have taken it out on you.”
“I suppose my presence here must look peculiar to her. I sometimes forget that I’m not at home, where people have grown accustomed to me and my odd activities.”
His eyes slid across her form, and she shivered in response when his gaze lingered on her face, her mouth. His eyes burned with intensity, clouded with something Lucy didn’t recognize. Her hand rose to her mouth, trembling fingers upon her lips as the memory of his kiss came rushing back to her. Good God, what had she done? Why had she allowed something so dreadfully improper, so terribly inappropriate? Terror laced with disappointment—disappointment with herself—raced through her veins. What if they’d been caught?
Henry’s eyes lingered on the girl’s face, flushed a soft pink, as her expression shifted discernibly from self-deprecation to something else altogether. There was something in her eyes...was it disappointment? Good God, had she expected a marriage proposal? Certainly well-bred young ladies didn’t go about kissing men they hardly knew without expecting an offer of marriage. But Miss Abbington was, well...she was a country physician’s daughter, after all, no matter how well connected. No matter how exquisite her kiss felt.
He moved away from her abruptly, retreating to the far stall and leaning indolently against the dusty wooden gate. “And do those odd activities of yours generally include allowing men you barely know to kiss you senseless?”
Her green eyes glittered as she haughtily set her chin in the air. “They most assuredly do not.”
“I don’t know what you expected after that”—he waved a hand dismissively—“that indiscretion, but let me assure you here and now that I will not be forced to marry you.”
“Whatever would make you say such a thing?” she sputtered.
“You certainly seemed eager enough for my kiss.”
“Are you suggesting I was attempting to entrap you?” The color in her cheeks deepened, and her hands clenched into angry fists. “First you take advantage of me, and then you insult me? Why did you bring me here today if you have so little respect for me, you arrogant, insufferable, conceited—”
“I believe I get your point. Wait here,” he spit out. “I’ll go summon the carriage and we shall return you to Glenfield at once.” He bowed stiffly and strode out with a scowl, cursing himself as he went.
Minutes later he returned to find Miss Abbington hastily shoving her hands into her gloves, her eyes stormy. He waited silently as she donned her bonnet and tied the ribbons with jerky motions, her unconcealed anger charging the air around her. Without a word between them, he led her to the carriage, offering his arm to hand her up. With a jerk of her head, she rebuked him, climbing in unassisted without a backward glance.
He signaled to the driver, and the carriage set off with a lurch. The high midday sun glinted off the shiny exterior as it clattered down the drive and through the gates in a cloud of dust.
As soon as the carriage turned into the lane and disappeared from sight, Henry returned to the stables with long, angry strides. The little filly was resting comfortably at Medusa’s side, her dark body curled against the mare. There was nothing more for him to do, so he stalked out restlessly, heading toward the house to clean up.
Into the great hall he stormed, his boots tapping loudly against the marble and up the wide, sweeping stairs. What a bloody fool I am, he thought, nearly kicking in the door to his bedchamber. Whatever was he doing, kissing an innocent like that? And then to go and accuse her of entrapment... He shook his head, sure he was losing his senses. It was his mother’s fault, damn her. Being in her company once more was addling his brain, and what with all her talk about marriage and producing heirs, it was no wonder.
He couldn’t explain his own behavior, nor justify it—not even to himself. He didn’t like the feelings Miss Abbington stirred in him. Yet, he liked her. He couldn’t deny that he truly liked her.
He exhaled slowly, deliberately, trying to force away the tide of self-loathing. He’d treated her abominably. He would apologize, of course. At the Warburton party. He would accept the dowager duchess’ invitation, and he would try to make it right with Miss Abbington before she left for London. She deserved nothing less. Something about the girl reminded him of Eleanor, after all. They were nothing alike, nothing at all, but the way he felt in their presence was the same—comfortable.
With a groan, he sprawled onto a worn leather chair and reached up to squeeze the taut muscles bunched behind his neck. Damn. Her Grace’s parties were intolerable.
Chapter 4
Never in her life had Lucy eaten a meal with so many courses—she had lost count at eight. By the time dessert and champagne were served she was so full she could barely swallow. The gentleman to her left, a Mr. Cogglesworth, was quite the conversationalist and she found herself breathless as well as mentally exhausted from attempting to follow the seemingly unconnected vein of his discourse.
Lucy looked around the candlelit dining room. Such a fashionable gathering. She felt out of place, and she couldn’t help but notice that her dinner partner was the lowest ranked gentleman in the assemblage. Clearly, her hostess was of the same opinion.
She looked up as the sound of Susanna’s laughter floated down the length of the table. Susanna was seated to the left of Lord Mandeville, who had—to everyone’s surprise—arrived just as they were going in to dinner. Susanna’s cheeks were flushed a pleasant pink and her pale eyes were lit with obvious delight as she bent her head toward his, basking in his presence. Lucy’s eyes moved guiltily away from Lord Mandeville and to his right and the tall, willowy girl whom had been introduced as Lady Charlotte Haverford, eldest daughter of the Earl of Hathorne. Her sleek hair was as dark as her skin was fair, and her features rather ordinary. Yet she was somehow striking. She certainly seemed familiar with Lord Mandeville. Lucy had counted three times in the past half hour when the girl had laid her hand upon his sleeve in a proprietary manner, obviously doing her best to distract him from Susanna’s company.
With a heavy sigh, Lucy returned her attention to her plate, trying her best to avoid looking in the marquess’ direction. He did nothing but confuse her sensibilities—she was angry at him, yet somehow drawn to him at the same time. She had felt a strangely surprising, comfortable camaraderie with him, right up until the moment he accused her of entrapment. She had told him things about herself—about her aspirations—that she’d never confessed to anyone, save Jane. It had felt as if she’d known him for years, not days. And then he’d gone and ruined it.
She’d lain in bed last night for hours, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Over and over she’d cursed herself for allowing his kiss. Every time she closed her eyes she could feel his lips upon hers, his tongue teasing her mouth, her insides quivering in response. It was as if he’d awakened some desires she had no idea existed there, dormant inside her, waiting to be explored. She dropped her gaze to her lap, her cheeks burning at the memory. Dear Lord, no wonder he accused her of playing such despicable games. What kind of wanton was she, allowing him to kiss her like that without the slightest protestation?
A part of her wanted to run back to Nottinghamshire, back to Papa and Nicholas, to her horses and animals—the life with which she was comfortable. She’d already made a mess of things here in Essex, and they were likely to get worse in London under the scrutiny of the ton. But running would be the cowardly thing to do, and Lucy was no coward. No. She said she would go to London, and go she would. It was only a few months, after all. She’d make Papa proud—make him see that she could be a proper young lady if she had to be. And then she could go home and live her life, follow her dreams. Perhaps then her father and aunt would abandon their dreams of seeing her married well.
“Miss Abbington?” Cogglesworth was saying, tapping a silver spoo
n to his goblet.
“Oh, pardon me, Mr. Cogglesworth. You were saying?” Lucy reluctantly dragged her attention back to the man seated beside her. Judging by his portly dimensions, she knew he must occasionally stop talking long enough to eat something.
“Yes, well, I was just saying it looks as if we might have ourselves a warm summer, don’t you think?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Lucy said vaguely. She wondered yet again what Lady Charlotte and Lord Mandeville were discussing. It could not possibly be as banal as the conversation she herself was so painfully engaged in.
“And how are you finding our humble village?” Cogglesworth asked with an eager smile, his jowls straining with the effort. “Pleasant, I hope?”
“Oh, yes, quite pleasant as always. I’ve spent time at Glenfield most every year of my life. It’s like a second home to me.”
“Is that so? Every year, you say, and yet I have only now made your acquaintance?”
“Hmmm, yes.” Lucy reached for a custard-filled pastry and nibbled absently. Would this interminable meal never end? She almost wept with relief when the dowager duchess at last rose and invited the ladies to the drawing room.
“Jane, dearest,” Lucy pleaded, “promise me you will not leave my side when the gentlemen join us. You must think of some emergency to drag me away if Mr. Cogglesworth approaches. A sudden onset of typhus, perhaps. Anything!”
“Poor Lucy,” Jane said with a sympathetic laugh. “Cogglesworth is tedious, is he not?”
“Tedious? Why, I would rather tread barefoot across broken glass than listen to him prattle on. By the way, where is Colin tonight?”
“He refuses to attend Her Grace’s parties. She offended him once and he’s never forgotten. I’m sure he’s out gambling away his fortune instead.”
“Really? Colin?” Lucy was shocked.
“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve been taken in by his ‘man-of-no-vices’ pretense. Lucy, don’t look now, but Lord Mandeville is headed our way.”
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